


routine (not to be disturbed)

by winter_hiems



Category: L'Homme qui rit | The Man Who Laughs - Victor Hugo, The Grinning Man - Philips & Teitler/Grose & Morris & Philips & Teitler/Grose, The Man Who Laughs (1928)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blind Character, Body Image, Canon Disabled Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Intimacy, Light Angst, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Tenderness, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26162800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_hiems/pseuds/winter_hiems
Summary: Sometimes Gwynplaine still dreams that he’s performing for the crowds…
Relationships: Dea/Gwynplaine | Grinpayne | Gwynplaine Trelaw
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	routine (not to be disturbed)

Sometimes he still dreamed of crowds. 

The laughing, the jeering, crashing waves of sound hitting him full in the face the second his mouth was revealed. 

*

After years of performances, his routine before the show was so familiar that he didn’t have to think about it. 

His clothes, well-worn but not so badly damaged that they’d detract from the view of his face. 

His hair, styled to the degree of slightly-messy-slightly-neat that was what the audience would expect from a performing freak. 

Makeup. Powder to pale his skin so that the smile would stand out more. 

These were the official preparations, and apart from when they were travelling, he’d made them every day for as long as he could remember. 

Before them, however, was Gwynplaine’s own personal preparation, which was strictly unofficial. 

He found a hiding place and curled up in a ball. 

Ursus didn’t know. 

Dea didn’t know. 

He’d make himself as small as possible, arms wrapped tight around his legs, hideous face tucked behind his knees, eyes shut, trying to block out the sound of the gathering crowd. 

Once, a member of the crew at the fair had come across him like that, sitting in the foetal position and trembling faintly. All the man had done was tell him that the crowd waiting for him was bigger than ever. All those people, come to see the smiling man. When he hadn’t reacted, the man had crouched down next to him, repeated the message, and then left without a backward glance. 

Outside, the crowd had been calling his name. 

Still shaking, scarf held over his mouth, he’d retreat to the only safe haven he knew; Dea. 

She recognised his footsteps, and would stretch out her hands, reaching, until she found him. Dea always smiled when she found him. Those smiles made him feel less of a monster, but the relief would swiftly be followed by guilt. What right did he have to Dea’s smiles? 

Then the official preparations would begin, with the actual performance following hard on its heels. Gwynplaine did his best to forget the performances. Tried hard to block out all memory of the faces in the audience and the things they said. Tried to forget the laughter. 

Ironic, really, for a man who had laughter carved onto his face. 

*

After the shows, he and Dea had their own routine. 

Ears ringing with the echoes of laughter, the only thing he wanted to do was forget himself in her arms. 

They had been made to hold each other. Some days it felt like the only way to know peace was to be wrapped up in Dea, eyes closed so that both of them were blind to the world. 

Dea would ensure that nobody interrupted them. “The Grinning Man is not to be disturbed,” said as imperiously as she could muster. 

She knew how much he needed the quiet, how much he needed to be held while the adrenaline worked its way out of his system. 

He ended every performance exhausted both mentally and physically. It was all he could do not to collapse, but he’d keep himself upright for as long as it took to end up kneeling opposite Dea so that they could be alone together. 

“The Grinning Man is not to be disturbed.” 

If he wanted to be alone, then that only counted for people who weren’t Dea. 

She’d hold him, and he’d hold her, their bodies pressed together, and he’d feel safe. She was his refuge, his shelter. 

In theory, there was nothing to protect him from the noise and the mockery of the outside world. Nothing more substantial than the walls of the Green Box and the scarf over his face. 

But in practise? In practise Gwyn knew that Dea would do everything in her power to keep him away from unwelcome prying eyes. His face was for the stage and only the stage. Nobody had the right to see it otherwise. Gwynplaine was only to be a spectacle when he chose. 

Not that there was much of a choice about whether he could perform or not. They needed to eat, so he went out there night after night and pulled off the scarf and listened to the howling laughter and went back into the Green Box to the peace of Dea’s arms. The fabric of her shirt bunching under his fingers. It had been rough once, worn smooth by time and wear. 

Everything they owned was rough, either bought cheaply or sewn from discarded scraps. They made do. They were poor, but the kind of poor that could afford meals three times a day and enough wood for a fire in the winter. 

But there wasn’t enough money for the performances to stop. There never would be. 

*

Or at least, that’s what he’d thought back then. Now, Gwynplaine knew better. Now, he knew the truth. He was a lord; a lord with money; a lord with a palace. 

When they’d first moved in he’d considered covering his face in front of the relatively few servants he employed, but in the end Dea convinced him against it. If someone couldn’t keep their composure around his face then they didn’t have the right to enter their home. 

And it was a home, the largest most comfortable home they’d ever known. Static too, which made a change from the rumble of the Green Box whenever they moved towns. 

The irony of it was that before, in their tiny box, Gwynplaine and Dea had slept apart, Dea in a narrow bed and Gwynplaine on the floor, but now that they had a palace to stay in they slept closer together than ever. He no longer felt guilty about spending the night with Dea. 

Spending the night with Dea did have its drawbacks, though. Namely that if he woke in the night, he would wake Dea as well. 

*

“What is it?” she said sleepily, “Is there something wrong?” 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he told her. “Sorry for waking you.” 

“You’re upset,” she said softly, turning over to properly face him. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Gwynplaine said, “I had a dream. Dreamt that I was onstage again with... with everything that comes with me being onstage.” 

Dea’s hand found his in the dark and she pressed it. “You never have to do that again. You never have to go out there again.” 

“I know. It’s just difficult to remember that sometimes. I’m still getting used to being a lord instead of a freak.” 

“Your hands are shaking.” 

“It was just a nightmare. I’ll feel better in a moment.” 

“Come here.” 

Gwyn let himself be pulled into her arms until his head was resting on her chest, an echo of the way she used to hold him after every performance. 

There would be no more performances. Gwynplaine was no longer a freak but a man, a man who had finally permitted himself to love Dea without guilt. He closed his eyes and let himself rest.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by two things:
> 
> 1\. The bit in the 1928 The Man Who Laughs when Gwynplaine curls into a ball shaking before the performance.  
> 2\. The bit after Freak Show when Gwyn and Dea are just holding each other.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcome <3
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. I am not making money from this work.


End file.
